Washington's Lady (5 page)

The very fact these three women had brought the children and had not sent them by a servant, spoke of their curiosity as to what exactly George and I were doing behind closed doors. If I would have told them we were discussing battles, they would have been disappointed.

I, however, was not. As the children were led away I realized I was willing to talk about most anything as long as it kept me in the presence of Colonel Washington.

*****

The fire had died, its embers a flicker. My companion looked at the clock, then back at me. “It has moved from late night to nearly morning.”

I had not noticed. “So it has.”

George stood. I say
George
, for during our all-night conversation, we had progressed from Colonel Washington and Mrs. Custis to George and Martha—at least in private. “I have kept you awake. I have prevented you from—”

“You have not
kept
me awake, nor prevented me from doing anything other than that which I desired to do.” I extended my hand to him. He hesitated, then took a step closer to take it. “I can honestly say I have never enjoyed myself more than I have conversing with you, George. The very fact that time had no meaning, that we did not notice the coming dawn, nor the dying of the fire, holds great significance.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps we are each other’s dawn, each other’s fire?”

I would not have been so bold—nor so eloquent—but was pleased he had chosen to be. “Very well said.”

He offered a bow.

I rose and glanced at the door. “Perhaps we should retire, e’en for a bit.”

“We shall speak again in the full morning, yes?”

“Of course.” I offered him a flirty smile. “I am not done with you yet, Colonel Washington.”

He blushed—a response that put him even more in my favour.

*****

We did have more chance to speak. After breakfast the next morning we were conveniently left alone—again. There was no more talk of battlefields, nor of any incidents of our past. We spoke of the future, of our hopes and desires. And we spoke of the one thing which made George come alive: we spoke of Mount Vernon.

I had never witnessed so much passion for land. I had often observed men coveting land, and heard them talking with zeal about obtaining more, but the passion that fueled George’s talk sprang from a deeper place, as though he found true connection with the soil and the agricultural roots he planted, as though they were intertwined with his own.

Although my Daniel had been very interested in our land and in the success of it . . . although he had offered many plans, in retrospect I realized they were more the plans of defense, to sustain what his family had started. On the other hand, George planned on the offensive, dreaming about what he would change to make things better. Where Daniel had exhibited ambition of the mind, George was consumed with an ambition of the soul.

“I wish to make Mount Vernon the greatest plantation in all Virginia.”

“You do not think small, George.”

“Nothing is accomplished in small dreams.” He cleared his throat, then offered more details. “The grass that breaches the hill toward the house has died. It needs to be completely reseeded. I wish for the first prospect of Mount Vernon to take one’s breath away with its beauty, with trees lining the road, and flowers accompanying the guest’s journey closer.”

I had to smile.

He noticed. “Have I said something humourous?”

“On the contrary. I smile because I am deeply impressed.”

“By flowers?”

“By men who surprise me. By men who can speak of battles and beauty. You seem to be a man complete in all things, Colonel Washington.”

“Not all things.” He looked away.

The time for his departure was nearing. I did not want him to go. And though he had not spoken directly, by all means indirect, by all methods of female intuition I possessed, I knew our minds and our hearts had connected. And with this connection . . .

We would see.

I entered the parlour and spied Jacky at a window, his knees perched upon a chair.

“What are you doing, son?”

“Is he coming soon, Mamma?”

“Yes. Soon. But I am not certain of the time. You should come away from the window and go about your day. I am sure Patsy would love to have you play with—”

“No! I am waiting here. I want to be the first to see him.”

As long as I am the second.

I looked about the parlour, making certain everything was just so. This would be George’s second visit to White House in less than a month, and if my intuition was correct, this visit would result in a proposal. If it did not, I would be sorely disappointed, for during the two occasions we had spent time together, I had come to revere him as a man, respect him as a soldier, relish him as good company, and react to him as a woman. When in his presence, I wished to be nowhere else. And when apart, I longed to be with him.

Was I in love?

If so, it was a different love than what I had felt for Daniel. Perhaps it was Daniel’s age that had made my love for him rooted in comfort and security. With Daniel I was the woman I had spent my entire life training to be: I was the wife of a plantation owner and the mother of many. We complemented each other, he and I. But—may Daniel forgive me—with there being a nineteen-year difference in our ages, there was never any true passion between us. There was an amiable regard, a fondness, a mutual respect and acceptance, but I do not remember feeling pulled beyond myself, lured into a place where the known Martha became a different Martha, someone more than I had ever been before.

When I was with George . . . he made me feel as though I was incomplete as I was
now
. There was more to Martha, more depth, more complexities, more excitement that was yet to be harvested. In his presence the world was vast and wide and held secrets I longed to explore. My role by his side would expand beyond the normal framework of a plantation wife. I did not know how, but the possibilities were enticing.

And frightening.

I had never traveled beyond the twenty-five miles to Williamsburg. When I married Daniel, the move from Chestnut Grove to White House encompassed but a short distance.

But George . . . George had been to Barbados with his ailing brother. He had surveyed wilderness lands never surveyed before. He had fought Indians and the French in the far-off Ohio Valley. He knew rivers with odd names like the Monongahela and Youghiogheny.

During our last visit he confided he had not been raised to be a gentleman. His family was considered (by his own words) second tier. His father, Gus, had sired two sons by his first wife—George’s older stepbrothers, Lawrence and Austin—before marrying George’s mother, Mary. They had six children in seven years, with George being the eldest. With each passing pregnancy, Mary grew more bitter and angry. It was not a pleasant household and was devoid of happy memories. Then Gus died young—at age forty. George, only eleven, was forced into the role of man of the house, forced to deal with a sour and resentful mother who was incapable of showing love toward her children or joy of any kind.

When he told me the story, I grieved for him, for one of my largest goals was to create a happy home for my Jacky and Patsy. Children were a blessing and deserved the full dedication of their parents. Nothing less.

Yet George did attain happiness through the intervention of his stepbrother Lawrence. Lawrence had been a soldier, fighting with Britain against Spain. George was enthralled with his brother’s military bearing
and
his uniform. When a boy is used to homespun and rough linen, the fine fabrics of a vivid costume are sure to impress.

Lawrence had inherited some land on the Potomac that he named Mount Vernon after his commander, Vice Admiral Edward Vernon. He married the daughter of an extremely wealthy landowner who lived in Belvoir, just four miles away. The family of Ann Fairfax held nearly five million acres of land. When Lawrence lost three children in four years, he began to think of his little brother as a son, and he and Ann groomed George to be a gentleman, teaching him how to dance, speak, fence, dress, ride a horse, and otherwise giving him his first real education. Colonel William Fairfax, the master of Belvoir, gave George free rein to his vast library and taught him about art and the finer things of a cultured life. The life he experienced with his brother and with the Fairfaxes was a stunning contrast to the silence and oppression of his mother’s house at Ferry Farm, where the library consisted of a Bible and a book of sermons.

When Colonel Fairfax’s son, George William, came home from attending school in England, he and George became fast friends, even though George William was seven years his elder.

George confided to me that his goal, even at that young age, was to appear honourable and virtuous. Toward that end he even hand-copied a Jesuit guidebook on manners in order to instill them in his mind. He had always been self-conscious about his looks, especially his height. He was six feet three inches, and his teeth were bad. Regarding the latter, he rarely laughed full voice, and when I caught him once and saw his teeth, I knew why he kept his reactions restrained. They were gray and at least one was missing. I, for one, had been blessed with lovely teeth. If ever the time seemed right, I planned to share my homemade tooth powder with him.

That George had had to fight for his honour and position, work hard for it . . . these things raised him in my eyes. Obtaining position and distinction through inheritance was one thing, but to obtain them through determination and merit was far another. Through his confidences, I was endeared to him even more. Not all men would admit lowly beginnings.

Nor failures.

I adjusted the books that sat upon a table and found myself smiling at the memory of another of George’s shared confidences. He had sat in this very chair and fingered the edges of these books as he told me the story.

He had just returned from the horrible defeat under the command of the late general Braddock. George had thought it his duty to explain why they had lost—as a means to prevent such a slaughter again. Colonel Fairfax had listened to his impassioned report and had spread the word to those higher up in the military.

In response to George’s wisdom, he was made colonel of the Virginia Regiment and commander in chief of all the colonial forces. Quite an accomplishment for a twenty-three-year-old man with no formal education.

George could have left his rendition of the story to me there—with his triumph—but he did not. He proceeded to tell me that feeling proud in his new position, he decided to visit the Virginia Regiment at a parade ground in Alexandria. He forecast his coming and yet . . . only ten officers and twenty recruits showed up. “It was evident I was commander in chief of nothing and almost no one.”

I believed all he said, but none of his assessment. For from what I knew of Colonel George Washington, he was a true commander, and would eventually have a myriad of troops at his beck and call. I could see it in him, in his eyes, in his stance, in his heart. He was a born leader.

And I was ready to be led.

“He’s coming! I see him!” Jacky jumped from the chair and ran to the door.

I discreetly looked out the window and watched as our groom Eustis took the horse’s reins. They exchanged some words, and Eustis stayed as George took a cloth from his pack and carefully wiped the dust from his boots. The simple act touched me . . . always a gentleman. Then he procured something else from his saddle, a small pouch.

Moments later, our butler, Cully, opened the door, and Jacky was right there, taking George’s hand. “Come in, come in! I have been waiting ever so long.”

To his credit, George allowed himself to be pulled inside. Cully took his hat. As soon as George saw me, he brought forth the pouch and carefully opened it against his palm. Inside were lovely dogwood blossoms. “The trees are in full flower, dotting the hillside amidst the other trees which have not yet leafed out. I stopped to bring you a few blossoms.” He offered them to me, a gentle transfer of petals from his hands to mine.

“They are lovely, George. Exquisite.”

“They are flowers,” Jacky said with disdain. “Did you bring me anything?”

“Jacky!”

“As a matter of fact, I did.” George pulled a hand-carved wooden pistol from the pocket of his coat. “I believe you will find it much more effective than a finger.”

Jacky took it, aimed, made the appropriate noises, and ran upstairs—to show Patsy, no doubt.

“I carved a little doll for Patsy,” George said.

“You are too kind.”

I led him into the parlour, then hesitated. “Would you like a respite from your journey?”

“No, I am fine, thank you. Actually . . .” He twisted his hands together. “I would feel best if I could . . . if I could say . . . ask . . .”

My nerves fluttered and I sought the support of the settee. “Do you have something on your mind, George?”

He began to sit in the chair nearby, then detoured to his knee. He took my hand. “Dearest Martha. Would you, could you, consider being my wife?”

To have this hulk of a man kneel at my feet, his large hand engulfing mine, his blue-gray eyes peering up at me . . . imploring me with their sincerity.

“I would, could, and will,” I said. “Yes, I say yes,” I added, just to make sure he understood my affirmation.

He brought my hand to his lips, then after a slight hesitation, stood tentatively and leaned forward to kiss my mouth.

I allowed it.

Welcomed it.

Longed for it.

Martha Washington.

It rang quite pleasant to the ear.

*****

As soon as George left from his visit, I made my own visit to see my mother in my childhood home at Chestnut Grove. I wanted to be the first to tell her the news.

Jacky and Patsy went off to play with my little sisters, Betsy, age nine, and Mary, who was the same age as Patsy—just two. For Mother to have a daughter and a granddaughter the same age . . . such was life. My brother William, though still unmarried at twenty-five, was a sometimes resident, being in the military, which often took him away.

Mother linked her arm through mine. “Shall we walk?”

It was Mother’s way of telling me she had something important to speak about. As Chestnut Grove was a small home, populated by too many impressionable ears, I easily agreed, for my news was also best told during a walk.

We eased away from the house, and I noted the loveliness of the bee balm and coreopsis dotting the lane. Once a safe distance from all possibility of prying ears, Mother said, “When is the wedding?”

I stopped our walk and faced her. “How did you know?”

She shrugged. “Servants talk; errands bring them together . . .”

She had stolen my surprise. I felt cheated. Then I realized she had not offered her congratulations. Not even an embrace or a kiss.

“Undoubtedly you approve?” I asked.

She began to shrug a second time, but I stopped the movement by putting my hand upon her shoulder. “I will not accept that response. Tell me how you could object. Surely, I cannot imagine why.”

Mother lowered her chin and stared at me. “Surely, you can.”

“I do not find any pleasure in these sorts of games, Mother. If you have something to say, say it plain.”

She took up our walk but did not take my arm. Although I would have rather spoken face-to-face, I followed her lead. “You desire my reason; here it is: you are the richest widow in Virginia. Colonel Washington is . . . much beneath you.”

“He is a war hero. He has the ear of the governor—of many men in power.”

“As an underling. As a strappy, eager soldier wanting to be noticed. And as a colonial officer willing to be called to duty. He is
not
of the British command.”

I felt my colour rise. “I beg anyone—man or woman—to tell me how his manners, his appearance, his actions, are anything less than those of a gentleman.”

“People can learn manners and proper dressing.”

I could not say more, for I knew George
had
procured the attributes through those very means.

“His plantation is struggling. I have heard he needs a substantial influx of capital to keep it going. By marrying you . . .”

“I will be happy to use a portion of my wealth to assist him in achieving his dreams.”

“His dreams?”

“My dreams.”

“So you will live in Mount Vernon?”

We had not talked about that detail. That large detail. “We will live wherever it is best we live.”

“What do the children think of him?”

“They love him. You should see how Jacky waited at the window for his arrival. They need a father.”

“He knows nothing of fathering.”

“I know enough for both of us.”

“But if he is away fighting the French, he will not be around to be a father. Or a husband. Or the master of any plantation—large or small.”

“He has chosen to go on one last campaign. The new Prime Minister, William Pitt, has seen the potential in the militia and talks of them with the respect they deserve. Many more are joining. Finally, George has a goodly contingent to lead.”

“So much for his loyalty to you and the children.”

“So much for his loyalty to our colony. To our king. George heard Brigadier General Forbes is going to take fifteen hundred British regulars and even more than that number of Virginians to fight the French at Fort Du Quesne.”

“Have we not suffered enough at that horrible place?”

I bridled on George’s behalf. “George has a personal stake in such action.” I did not want to mention his first humiliation at the nearby Fort Necessity, lest Mother not know of it, but since she had implied knowledge of the fort, I could mention the common news of Braddock’s defeat. “Certainly you know of our defeat when General Braddock was killed?”

“That was years ago. Two, maybe three years.”

I stopped walking, forcing her to face me once again. “So old news is best forgotten? We should suffer a defeat and move on? I think not. The French are still persisting in their quest for land—land they do not deserve. If we are ever going to have the space to expand westward, we need to stop—”